


The Sixth Commandment

by dozmuffinxc



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 13:51:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8492227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dozmuffinxc/pseuds/dozmuffinxc
Summary: According to gentlemen's dueling tradition, it is customary to leave a note for your next of kin in case you do not return from the dueling grounds.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They row across the Hudson just past midday.

_December, 1778_

They row across the Hudson just past midday, the late afternoon sun casting the shadow of  their small boat into relief on the sparkling waves.

“I wish you would let me row, or man one oar at least,” Laurens says, his voice echoing strangely off the calm waters.

“And risk a splinter in your trigger hand?” Alexander replies, working to keep his tone light. 

Laurens laughs.

“I think you just like the opportunity to show off your unparalleled strength,” he says, mischievous grin glinting in the first rays of sunlight breaching the horizon. “After all, isn’t it you that’s always going on about how you would take on the British army by yourself if Washington would only give you a command?”

Alexander rolls his eyes and reaches across the boat to strike at Laurens with the back of his hand, but the other man dodges the half-hearted blow easily, his smile wilting at the pale cast to his friend’s cheeks. Gradually, understanding blossoms across Laurens’ youthful face.

“You did nothing to discourage me in taking up this fight, Alexander,” Laurens says, leaning forward so that he can be heard over the sound of the shallows beating against the sides of the boat. 

Smiling again, he adds, “Are you worried that I will lose?”

“No,” Alexander replies quickly, putting extra strength into his strokes as the shape of Weehawken’s shoreline appears out of the glare. “You’re an excellent shot.”

Laurens watches Alexander as he lifts the oars out of the water and the boat coasts into the dock. The prow bumps against the small pier, the thud echoing hollowly, and Laurens jumps from the skiff to tie the rope to an unoccupied cleat.

“John,” Alexander begins, making his cautious way to the front of the boat. “You will be careful, won’t you? Only, it would be terribly inconvenient to have to explain your demise to Lafayette. He’s awfully fond of you, you know, and---”

His speech is cut short by Laurens’ strong grip on his arm, pulling him to his feet and half-lifting him onto the dock by his side.

“I would never dream of inconveniencing you, Alexander,” Laurens says, reaching over to brush at a speck of dirt on Alexander’s coat. 

“In that case,” Alexander replies, ducking his head to hide the beginnings of a blush, “I believe it’s time to teach Charles Lee a long-overdue lesson.”

When he looks up again, Laurens is studying his face with an intense look of concentration that would have been more at home on the countenance of General Washington, not on the playful visage of his best friend. Alexander opens his mouth to reassure him, but Laurens interrupts him with a light squeeze to the shoulder. In his other hand, Laurens holds out a piece of parchment that has been carefully folded and sealed with red wax. Alexander recognizes the Laurens family crest.

“Alexander,” Laurens begins, his eyes searching Alexander’s, “should things go… poorly, I trust you will see to this.”

Realization dawns on Alexander: it is commonplace for the dueling parties to write notes to their next of kin, final words and wishes recorded in the case of serious injury or death. To even consider such a conclusion sends a shudder through Alexander that Laurens, hand still at his friend’s shoulder, must feel.

“It won’t,” Alexander reassures him, pocketing the missive without glancing at the address.

Laurens stares for a moment at the slight bulge in Alexander’s coat where the letter now rests.

“Right,” he says at last, a cheery -- if slightly forced -- smile in place. “Let us go and show Lee what real men are made of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The title is a reference to the sixth dueling commandment as recorded in Lin-Manuel Miranda's "The Ten Duel Commandments" ("leave a note for your next of kin...") as well as to the sixth commandment from the book of Genesis ("thou shalt not kill"). Coincidence? I THINK NOT.  
> -Although Miranda's lyrics say "duel before the sun is in the sky," accounts of the actual duel between John Laurens and Charles Lee has them meeting at half past three in the afternoon.  
> -John's joke that Alexander just wants to show off his "unparalleled strength" is a nod to the fact that Alexander Hamilton was not a particularly healthy man. He actually spent quite a lot of time (including during the War) laid up with various illnesses.  
> -Be prepared for a ton of references to Lin-Manuel Miranda's lyrics in this story. He is a talented cinnamon roll, and I like to think that he wouldn't mind my snagging some of his beautiful lines to further the Ham/Laur cause.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander is surprised to feel a slight bulge where his inside pocket lies, and it’s only then that he remembers Laurens’ note.

_Later that evening._

 

Laurens is seated at the head of the table in the place of honor. In one hand, he holds his glass up like a trophy; with the other, he gesticulates wildly. 

“... and there’s Lee, bleeding from the side,” he says, beaming around at his companions, “and he declares that the wound isn’t mortal, and shouldn’t we fire another round?”

Alexander leans back in his chair where he sits at Laurens’ right-hand, the laughter of his friends washing over him. Lafayette and Mulligans joined them at the pub as soon as their duties had ended for the day, and Laurens has been regaling them with the story of his daring ever since. He would never admit it to Laurens, but when the duelling shots went off that morning, Alexander had felt fear unlike anything he had experienced before. Having Laurens here, alive and whole, making jokes at Lee’s expense, is a pleasure beyond words.

Laurens looks at him expectantly, so Alexander clears his throat and adds, “...at which point, Laurens replies: ‘I’m game if he is!’ Can you imagine?”

Lafayette laughs appreciatively and claps Laurens on the back. Across the table, Mulligan shakes his head and eyes his half-empty glass with reproach.

“I wish I had been there,” he groans. “The most exciting thing I’ve had to deal with of late has been a shortage of good cambric muslin.”

Receiving only blank stares from around the table, Mulligans shakes his head.

“Fabric, boys,” he chuckles, and he tips back his head to take a great swill of ale.

“The General isn’t pleased,” Lafayette says knowingly,  eyes already bright with drink. “I would not wish to be either of you gentlemen at tomorrow’s council meeting. In fact, I am surprised Washington has not come down to the pub  himself to drag you both home by your ears like écoliers vilaines!”

“I only did what I thought was right,” Laurens cries, dismay painted across his features.

“Ah, of course,” Lafayette says, “and no doubt Lee deserves what he got after the vicious slander he spread about our good General. Nevertheless…”

“Laurens acted with honor, and I am proud to have been his second,” Alexander interjects, feeling his cheeks flush with an unexpected rush of defensive anger. He knows Lafayette means to warn them against Washington’s censure, but all he can comprehend at the moment is the look of doubt on Laurens’ face.

The group falls silent, each man contemplating his glass. Lafayette allows the discussion to drop, but Alexander catches him throwing concerned glances across the table at Laurens who has taken to staring broodingly into his now-empty tankard.

“Well,” Mulligans says at last, “I am for bed.”

The other men groan, but no one objects. The hour is late, and they should all be abed if they are to face the new day’s challenges.

“I’ll settle up,” Laurens says.

This elicits a round of cheers from the table, and as Laurens makes his way to the bar to pay for their drinks, Mulligans says his goodbyes and shuffles out the door with the gait of someone who has spent the day on his feet and longs to put them up by a hearth at day’s end.

Lafayette comes around the table, glancing over his shoulder to be sure that Laurens is still out of earshot.

“He knows I meant no offense, yes?” Lafayette asks, a comically hangdog expression on his face.

Alexander reaches over to place a reassuring hand on his arm.

“Laurens could never stay angry at you, my friend. None of us could!”

Lafayette grins in acknowledgment and taps Alexander’s chest with his closed fist. Alexander winces; Lafayette has always been over-enthusiastic, and it feels as though his friendly punch has left a bruise.

“You are a good man, Alexander. I will miss you after the General has you buried alive on the morrow,” he says, and waving happily to his friend, he makes his way out of the tavern and off to his rooms in the army barracks.

Alexander laughs, reaching up to rub the spot on his chest where Lafayette’s fist has no doubt left a mark. He is surprised to feel a slight bulge where his inside pocket lies, and it’s only then that he remembers Laurens’ note.

He glances across the room to where Laurens has apparently struck up a conversation with the bartender. Laurens glances up, and Alexander gestures to the door, signifying that he’ll wait outside, and as soon as the other man nods, he grabs his coat and hurries out into the humid night air.

The letter is as he remembers it: written on crisp, clean parchment and sealed with red wax that bears the imprint of the Laurens family crest. What he had not noticed before is the address: written in Laurens’ hand in clear, neat letters is Alexander’s own name.

Despite the heat, Alexander feels a shiver rack his body as he fumbles at the paper, working the seal free and unfolding the parchment with shaking hands. The letter is not long.

_Dear Alexander,_

_As I prepare to duel with the scoundrel Lee, I cannot be easy in my mind knowing that I may die today having never told you of my true feelings. I believe you to have long suspected that my love for you is more than that of mere friendship, and I had begun to hope that you might feel similarly. Perhaps it was only foolishness to wish that you might care for me as anything more than your brother-in-arms, but it is imperative to me that, should I perish in this fight, you know that no one has held my heart as you have._

_Be well, Alexander, and when the war is won, remember me._

_Yours,_

_J. Laurens_

Alexander releases a breath he had not known he was holding and leans heavily against the outer wall of the tavern. Laurens finds him like this, the letter still clutched in his hands, when he emerges a few minutes later.

“I thought you had left me,” Laurens says, making his way to Alexander’s side, “but I should have known you would wait. You’re a good friend, Alex---”

Alexander meets the other man’s eyes and is shocked to see how pale Laurens’ countenance has turned. Alarmed, he reaches out to offer aide, but Laurens’ recoils.

“You-- you were never supposed to read that,” he stammers, his voice barely more than a whisper. “It was stupid, I was… please, forget what you’ve read.”

Laurens reaches out as if to grab the paper, and Alexander instinctively presses the letter against his chest.

“No,” Alexander says, a catch in his throat, “don’t apologize. Don’t say you regret what you wrote, because I do not.”

The stricken look on Laurens’ face transforms into one of disbelief.

“Don’t lie to save my feelings, Alexander,” he whispers, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Alexander steps forward just as a group of young soldiers pushes their way out of the tavern door, arms around each other’s shoulders, singing boisterously and weaving their way across the commons unsteadily. Alexander takes John by the arm and pulls him into the shadows along the side of the building where they won’t be interrupted, but instead of pulling back when they’re out of sight, he stands less than a hand’s breadth away from the other man.

“You said that you love me,” Alexander states, staring deep into Laurens’ eyes. 

Laurens nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows back whatever excuse he had prepared.

“That I have your heart,” Alexander continues, his hand following the curve of Laurens’ arm until he reaches his shoulder. 

Laurens doesn’t have to answer: Alexander can feel the pulse quickening beneath his fingers as he cups his hand around Laurens’ neck and brings their faces together. Their noses touch, and all he can see are the blacks of the other man’s pupils.

“Show me,” he breathes, and the words have barely left his lips before Laurens’ mouth is on his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time, guys: I have never written smut before in my life, and the fact that this chapter isn't even explicit and I was squealing and blushing the entire time I wrote it... yeah, this little asexual nerd is way out of her depth. But when it comes to my OTP, I just have to see them happy, and if that means writing two of our founding fathers getting hot and heavy against the wall of a tavern... dammit, I am more than willing to be uncomfortable!
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTES:  
> -In regards to the "vicious slander" that Lafayette mentions: Charles Lee was passed over for the post of Commander-in-Chief for Washington. In anger, he is said to have remarked that "Washington is not fit enough to command a Sergeant's Guard." He was court-martialed after his humiliating retreat (against Washington's orders) at the Battle of Monmouth, and when his attempts to get the verdict overturned failed, he maligned Washington publicly. This led to the infamous duel of the last chapter.  
> -It's true that Lee wanted them to fire again after he was hit by Laurens' first shot. That guy was intense! But Alexander and Lee's second were able to talk it out and convince them to allow honor to be sated with the shot already fired, and everyone went their separate ways.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are moments that words simply cannot reach.

There are moments that words simply cannot reach, instances of intimacy only to be met with the hush of breath and the sweep of flesh on flesh. Such moments are rare for a man like Alexander. His living – his _life_ – is founded on the power of cacophonous words, and silence is not something he puts much stock in.

But this – there are no words in his vocabulary to define what this wonder is, and perhaps that should bother a man whose vernacular scope stretches beyond ordinary comprehension, but… it doesn’t. There’s a magic in the undefinable, and for the moment, sensations speak volumes.

It’s difficult to register so many feelings at once: the rush of adrenaline from their sprint across the commons, the harsh hammering of his heart beating an unfamiliar rhythm against his ribs, an unexpected lightness in his head that has nothing to do with drink. When John pulls him impatiently into the empty room, Alexander has a moment’s fleeting doubt that this is happening to him at all; his legs don’t seem connected to his torso and he can’t fathom how something that’s only ever lived as the shadow of an impossibility in the secret recesses of his mind could be happening. But it is, and the weight of John’s hand on his chest, pulling him down onto the coverlet, is all the proof he needs.

“Kiss me again,” John rasps, eyes bright even in the darkness of the room. 

There’s a nearly imperceptible question mark at the end of the request, and Alexander surprises himself with the force of his response. Their teeth knock together in his eagerness, but he so wants to erase that question mark that he ignores the momentary discomfort and deepens the kiss until they both draw back, gasping for breath.

“Have you any idea how much I’ve longed for this?” Alexander asks, supporting his weight with his elbow and letting his lips ghost over John’s forehead, savoring the salty tang of the other man’s sweat.

Soft laughter vibrates between their chests.

“Oh?” John replies, his fingers busy at the strings of Alexander’s trousers. “Tell me.”

Alexander’s eyelids flutter at the surprise of John’s thumb on his thigh, and when the other man draws a decided stroke with calloused fingers along his groin, he whimpers.

“What was that?” John teases, and as he talks, he presses against Alexander’s shoulder with his free hand until Alexander finds himself on his back, his head cushioned against the counterpane, staring up into John’s eyes with breathless longing.

Alexander tries to find the words to reply, and he realizes he must look quite absurd as he gapes helplessly upwards, but John laughs. An impossibly large smile creases his eyes and sets his cheeks aflame with an inner fire that sets the light spattering of freckles across his nose into stark contrast. Suddenly, the distance between them seems too cavernous to bear, and Alexander reaches up with greedy hands to pull John’s face to his, fingers tangled in the riot of curls that the other man keeps in check with a small length of blue ribbon. When their lips touch, it is a gentle joining, and the taste of ale, stale bread, and anticipation is unexpectedly sweet.

When John pulls back, Alexander moans in protest and attempts to pull him back down, but John resists. Instead, his smile becomes mischievous as he loosens and then discards Alexander’s cravat and then proceeds to attack the buttons on his vest with bright-eyed enthusiasm. Alexander would laugh if he wasn’t so enamored with the way John’s lips are slightly parted, his tongue visible for just a moment as he wets his lips. The vest and then his shirt quickly join his cravat on the floor, and for a moment Alexander feels self-conscious. It isn’t that he worries that John will find him unattractive – not entirely. But to be seen this way – really seen, and by _John_ , no less – is disarming, and it sets his heart to pounding afresh.

“You are perfect,” John breathes, and the pounding in Alexander’s heart gives way to a euphoric tattoo to rival the liveliest drums of war.

Alexander isn’t prepared for the quiver of pleasure that makes his breath hitch as John begins to press soft kisses into the hollows of his shoulders. John’s mouth is warm, his lips slightly wet, and as he traces a path from clavicle to sternum, Alexander is filled with a rising heat that must surely be turning every inch of his skin scarlet. The kisses become harder, more urgent, as John moves farther down, pausing to offer open-mouthed tribute to each of Alexander’s nipples.

“My God,” Alexander gasps, his back arching in response.

“Blasphemy, Alexander?” John chastises, but there is no real reproach in his voice.

Alexander’s hands clutch at the sheets as John moves lower still, pausing to admire his erect cock where it has sprung free of his open trouser fastenings. When John takes him in his mouth, Alexander cries out.

Alexander is not inexperienced in the ways of lovemaking, nor is this his first time with a man, but there is something utterly different about the hot caress of John’s tongue, the pressure of the other man’s fingers on his hip where he’s anchored himself. Stars dance before his eyes, and he must be making the most irrational sounds because he can feel the rumble of John’s laughter travel the length of his shaft and lodge somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

When John pulls away, Alexander wastes no time: he gets to his knees so that they are kneeling together on the bed, face-to-face. John’s erection is hard and hot against his leg even through the thick wool of his trousers, and it takes all the resolve Alexander can muster not to rip those trousers in his eagerness to eliminate the last barrier between John’s skin and his. He doesn’t breathe as his hand slips past the laces, and when at last he cups the other man’s balls, Alexander feels them throb against his fingertips. John’s hands fly to Alexander’s hair, fingers twisting among the black strands until tiny sparks of pain erupt on his scalp and he gasps with surprise and unexpected bliss.  Burying his face in the curve of Alexander’s neck, John’s body tenses as a wave of pleasure takes him and his breath becomes ragged, tickling the tender flesh beneath Alexander’s ear.

Slowing his strokes to a gentle, rhythmic caress, Alexander reaches for his own erection and takes himself in hand. John whimpers, a wordless plea for relief that is all sound and no words, but Alexander is determined to make the moment last. John leans into his chest, cock straining against his sweating palm, until Alexander’s back hits the headboard and John’s mouth crashes against his. 

They come to completion together, and when Alexander collapses onto the mattress, they fall into each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the hardest thing (pun intended) I've ever written. I hope you'll go easy on me and remember that this is my first smut, and that I just really want Hamilton and Laurens to do it at least once because they deserve a little happiness, dammit!
> 
> So many thanks to my betas for reading this over and encouraging me as I blushed and stammered and nervously giggled my way through the writing of this chapter. To Jen, who entertained my late night inquiries about synonyms for "penis" and "scrotum," and to Merinda, who offered up her considerable writing experience: so much love!
> 
> Finally, it may be really corny and just bad writing practice, but I consciously started referring to Laurens as "John" in this chapter to reflect the new level of intimacy between them. Why I insisted on calling him "Laurens" before this when I was calling Hamilton "Alexander" is purely a matter of author's preference -- it's how I always think of them in my head. Also, even though Alex isn't actually narrating, the focus is on him and his feelings and reactions, so... it just seemed right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning revelations.

_The next morning._

The sound of the inn coming to life the next morning wakes Alexander. Washington’s aides are expected to rise early, and although he is devoted to the cause, Alexander has never wanted to shirk his duties more. The sight of John sprawled out on the bed, mouth slack and limbs akimbo, makes his heart ache, and when he sees the other man reach for the side of the bed he has just vacated, he has to swallow back tears. Call it sentimentality, and perhaps it has no place in war, but Alexander revels in it. He’s searched his whole life for a place to belong, and after countless disappointments, he thinks that “home” can be a person after all.

He remembers with painful clarity the hurricane that devastated Nevis when he was a boy; he thinks of it now, how the sky became prematurely dark just before dusk and the wind took to screaming in the eaves, ripping shingles from the roof as the sea roared its approval. He learned later that, despite the violence of the storm, there is a place at the center of the tempest where all is calm and no devastation touches.

This war – glorious and bloody and terrible and imperative – is like that hurricane. Alexander knows that it could take his life at any time, and he has made his peace with that. He is more than willing to die for his country’s cause, but here, in the eye of the storm with John in this room, the urge to live has never been stronger. He knows that the moment they step across the threshold and back into the heady tide of revolution, they will have to set what they have aside. But maybe – if they’re lucky – when the war is over and Washington has led their young country to freedom, there might be a chance for more. Alexander finds himself yearning for that chance, and as he shrugs on his wrinkled shirt and buttons up his vest, a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

There is a knock at the door, and Alexander stiffens. It would be difficult to explain John’s presence in his room this early in the morning even if he wasn’t currently sprawled naked on his bed. Alexander has no idea how the other aides de camp will react; he knows that there are those who interpret the Bible’s treatise on sodomy quite literally, and while he puts no stock in such close-minded drivel, he would rather not risk a public flogging. The other soldiers have enough fodder for condescension when it comes to taunting Washington’s resident creole bastard, but Alexander can’t bear to think of John facing the same mortification.

“Alexander,” a familiar voice calls from the other side of the latched door, “we are going to be late for the meeting!”

Alexander opens the door just wide enough to take in the sight of a slightly bedraggled Lafayette, one arm in his regimental jacket and the other curled around a large stack of papers.

“I’ve only just woken up,” Alexander admits, running a hand through his unkempt hair.

Lafayette cocks his head, his expression bemused. 

“Sleeping in, Alexander? That isn’t like you. Laurens is the one who usually has to be dragged from his bed, but even he got the jump on you this morning! I went by his room first, and it seems he’s already—”

A hand comes to rest on Alexander’s shoulder, and before he can register the slack-jawed look of surprise on Lafayette’s face, he feels the brush of John’s curls on his cheek as the other man leans into the doorway and smiles at their friend.

“I’m afraid you give me too much credit,” Laurens says as Alexander’s cheeks turn scarlet.

For a moment, Lafayette says nothing. The expression on his face shifts from bemusement to dawning realization, and before either Alexander or John can make excuses, he nods and shifts his parcel of papers to his other arm.

“Well,” he says, fishing two warm biscuits from the pocket of his uniform trousers and tossing one first to Laurens and then to Alexander, “when the General is cross at us for holding up his briefing, I shall be sure to tell him exactly whose fault it is.”

Alexander experiences a rush of pleasure at the ready acceptance of his friend and, not for the first time, thanks Heaven for bringing the young Marquis into his life.

“You heard the man,” John says, bumping Alexander’s side with his hip as he bends to pick up his discarded shirt and jacket from the floor where they were abandoned last night, “the General awaits!”

Alexander pushes the door closed without taking his eyes off the other man.

“And he can wait a bit longer,” he says, and before John can finish buttoning up his jacket, Alexander pulls him to his feet and presses his mouth to lips already parted in anticipation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -References here to Hamilton’s account of that hurricane which was published in the Royal Danish American Gazette on 6 September, 1772. This is the same piece of writing that ultimately led to his being sent on scholarship to Kings College. You can read the text for free at http://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-01-02-0042.  
> -Descriptions of common punishments for soldiers can be found at http://www.shsu.edu/~his_ncp/MilPun.html.
> 
> I realize I got (even more) heavy-handed with references to LMM's lyrics in this chapter, but I couldn't help it. That score is a thing of beauty, and I was not about to throw away my shot at working in as many nods to the musical as I could.


End file.
